


No Flowers

by pandibicth



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Heavy Themes, Mentions of Suicide, Talk of Suicide, i project a lot but i promise im fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandibicth/pseuds/pandibicth
Summary: Richie's life, spending thirty years away from his friends.I wrote this for me but you guys can read it too i guess
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, mentionned but its mostly abt richie so
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	No Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> when i say talk of suicide im not joking its very heavy he never tries anything or any self harm but plezse be cautious  
> also this is a google doc where i word vomited my emo feelings its very cathartic so im posting it hoping that it can b cathartic to others too

Richie Tozier never tried to kill himself. That's what he likes to tell himself when someone worries about him. You're not depressed. You're not suicidal. You never tried to kill yourself.  
He thought about it. He thinks about it all the time. Not in an active way, in a daydreaming sort of way, and if that isn't a fucked up thing to say, what is? In a "I wonder who would find me” way. I wonder who they would call. I wonder who would plan my funeral. I wonder who would cry. I wonder who would care.  
A newspaper would talk about it, that's certain. A celebrity killing themselves? Not the first time, but news enough right? Maybe they could publish a think piece on how hard the life in Hollywood is, after. "Comedian Richie Tozier found dead in Los Angeles apartment. Known by many, close to few, missed by none."  
The article would be impersonal, and that would be it. Some acquaintances would tweet, probably. Give the number of a hotline. Talk to people. You matter. No one ever says what you’re supposed to do if you have no one to talk to. 

One day, it was pouring outside at two in the morning, and Richie went out in the rain, barefoot, a thin pyjama on, hypnotised. He laid in the rain for hours, letting it hit him, wash over him, feeling like he was bleeding into the pavement, like his very essence was seeping into the ground. Despite the cold, he was burning up, muttering nonsense, tears blending with rain. “He will rescue me, he will help me, he’ll take care of me,” he was thinking madly, feverishly. He had no idea how long he stayed there, pleading to someone he didn’t know, but one of his neighbors eventually found him and took him to the hospital: Alma, the old lady with the big dog. He barely remembers it, except for the smell of Alma’s perfume on the headrest and the gentle way she rubbed her thumb over his knuckles the whole time. 

It's not about the hurt, really. Richie Tozier isn't tortured. His life isn't hard. He isn't getting beaten, or struggling to pay the bills, or even an orphan. Really it's the apathy. What am I doing. Who is it for. What does it matter. Once, Richie read a headline or a tweet or whatever that really stuck. It was "All of the people that survived a fall from the Golden Gate realized halfway through that all their problems were solvable." and Agatha Christie wrote something similar in Towards Zero, about how people who fail their suicide attempts never try again. 

There's a longing for that sort of solution. If you try and fail, you'll never want to do it again. What Richie wouldn't give to find an answer, halfway down the Golden Gate. 

Mike calls, right before a show, and surprisingly, it doesn't make him want to take a leap. It would give him an excuse, the same one the cowards take when they hang themselves in their prison cell. Fear. It's about regaining control, deciding when you die. But he doesn't feel like a prisoner on death row. He feels like he's standing on the railing of the Golden Gate, looking down at the San Francisco Bay, and that someone caught his hand right before he could fall. It feels like he's on the floor of his parking lot under the rain, and that someone is opening the door that leads inside and yelling at him to get up. It's like he was sleeping, for thirty years, and that someone threw a glass of water in his face to wake him up. He's been driving for two hours when he says it out loud for the first time.

The "Eddie" tumbles out of his lips, and then it's like his whole body is an old faucet, and that Mikey's phone call and that small word, almost forgotten, tasting foreign and bitter on his tongue but also so important, like it's written in the San Francisco Bay, finally managed to force the tap open. He has to pull over because he's crying, crying at the loss of the most important people in his life. He cries at seven lives that crossed and then never crossed again. Would it have been better if they stayed parallel? Fat tears roll down his cheeks, and he's crying like a child, like he hasn't cried in decades, when your nose runs and you make broken sounds, between a whine and a yell. He thinks of his eulogy, if that thing he's so scared of gets him. Richie Tozier. Loved by his friends. No flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading if you want you can leave a kudo or a comment they mean a lot  
> i am on twitter @pandibicth and on tumblr @augusteelpd i know it doesnt reflect here but im very funny usually  
> 


End file.
